


What a long road

by everythingispoetry



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Character Study, Inspired by a Movie, Introspection, Kissing, M/M, Missing Scene, POV Carlos (Welcome to Night Vale), Slow Build, Travel, strange time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-15
Updated: 2013-09-15
Packaged: 2017-12-26 16:38:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/968203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everythingispoetry/pseuds/everythingispoetry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carlos is not a scientist. He doesn’t think. It doesn’t feel like he is. He has professional equipment and knows how to use it and he did study sciences back at his university, but deep inside he knows he isn’t here to explore, inspect and explain. He is here because he wanted to run away and Night Vale seemed like the farthest place he could find, in so many ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What a long road

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't seen _Koyaanisqatsi_ yet, please do. The pictures. The atmosphere. The _music._ (You can find it for example [ on vimeo](https://vimeo.com/21922694))

 

_When I was here, I wanted to be there; when I was there, all I could think of was getting back._

 

 

Carlos has never seen desert before coming to Night Vale. He was brought up in a place with four seasons, with snow and mountains, a place that shouldn’t exist by the Night Valean standards. He grew up in a place not far from the ocean.

He only ever flew over a desert, but from up above it didn’t seem that different from an ocean, only the color was wrong.

Night Vale may look like any other small town at first glance, but Carlos notices how the rusty red soil colors the pale pavements and the house’s white walls. He notices how the soles of his shoes leave dusty red marks on the doormat. Little details no one else seems to pay attention to.

For the first few days he isn’t sure what is happening. He prepares his lab, putting out and installing various devices, eats lasts of the food he brought with himself, tries to get his body used to the dry hot air entering his lungs in thick waves, burning him from the inside. In the evenings he watches the town bathed in red sunset light until his eyes hurt from not blinking, and listens to the radio host’s smooth voice, trying to figure out if the man is serious or if it’s all just an elaborate joke the whole town seems to take part in.

At nights, when the sky hosts more stars that should exist, and the temperature drops to numbers he can live with, he wonders what he is doing here.

Carlos is not a scientist. He doesn’t think. It doesn’t feel like he is. He has professional equipment and knows how to use it and he did study sciences back at his university, but deep inside he knows he isn’t here to explore, inspect and explain. He is here because he wanted to run away and Night Vale seemed like the farthest place he could find, in so many ways.

He isn’t planning on admitting to any of this, certainly not to his assistants or to the town’s people. Or to the radio host that does seem to know everything. Carlos wonders if the man _does_ know everything. It doesn’t seem important _how_. 

Everyone in the town gets to know Carlos as inquisitive, curious and always focused on his work. Carlos likes that. He doesn’t want to talk with them about anything else than business. He doesn’t know how to talk about anything else. Pretending becomes his second nature.

His team usually stays behind  and does what Carlos tells them to, and he ends up dragging his legs through the scorched land slowly, slowly, staring at everything around longer than necessary. It feels like his dark skin gets darker and the prematurely greying hair at his temples gets even more sun-bleached. It feels like his eyes get burned out by constant sunlight.

Carlos’ seismograph shows that the earth is trembling underneath Night Vale almost constantly and no one seems to feel any of it or think it’s strange. Carlos blinks slowly at the impassive faces and nods. Sometimes it feels like the earthquakes are just the trembling restlessness in his bones.

There are lights and sounds coming from Radon Canyon and there’s a whispering forest, there is a dog park and dogs and librarians and countless other things that Carlos sees and investigates with minimal involvement and a great deal of acting, or that he hears about in Cecil’s voice. He’s learned the radio host’s name finally. It seems fitting to the smooth deep voice that he hears every day.

 

 

It takes Carlos a few months to notice that he’s losing himself.

He’s always had a certain definition of a person he is, he wants to be, and it’s getting blurry and seems as remote as the ocean, as the mountains.

So he goes to Ralph’s and buys ingredients for a pizza. New York-style. Like he was used to during his stay in the city. Of course the crust has to be wheat-free, but Carlos fancies if he closes his eyes and persuades himself it tastes like it should, he will believe it.

It’s December. New York must be covered in snow, with Christmas trees and chains of colorful fairy lights everywhere. It must be cold there, bone-chilling cold, with the salty wind from the ocean pushing into everyone lungs, light and cool.

Carlos didn’t let himself think about the rest of the world for some time and it’s strange how much he suddenly misses it. A shiver runs down his spine when he thinks about colorful autumn leaves in Central Park. Or back at home, covering the irregular hills. Green and red and golden. Green grass. Rain. Mist. Sharp moist air of early mornings.

Back at home, he puts away the groceries and sits by the table, burying his face in his hands and pretends he doesn’t mind the sweat all over his body, after a long hot day of work. His hands smell like ash.

The pizza tastes almost like it should, so differently from Big Rico’s. It tastes as real as anything is Night Vale can resemble something from the outside.

 

 

The next week, Carlos takes a few days off and goes to New York.

Stepping out of the air-conditioned airport building is like a dream. He shivers, feeling the freezing air all over his body, dressed too light for the temperature, but it’s a pleasant feeling. Something Carlos missed so much that he has to lean against the building’s wall and control his legs which suddenly go weak. There is a buzz of cars and voices and just a city rush all around, oppressive and persistent.

Carlos takes a cab, a rare luxury for someone like him, and the driver takes him to the hotel where he managed to get a room.

The city is all grey and black and white and steel blue.

Carlos sleeps for fourteen hours straight, shivering when he falls asleep and shivering when he wakes up, and stares at the skyscrapers he can see through the big window. He wonders if they believe in skyscrapers in Night Vale, it never came up. 

Out in the streets, Carlos puts on a hat and scarf and gloves he didn’t realize he still owned, and wanders around, taking small steps and trying not to walk into other people. He probably passes more people during one stroll than he’s met in Night Vale during the months he spent there.

He buys a bagel and a slice of pizza and everything with wheat he can think of and devours it until he starts to feel sick, then he goes to stand by the ocean and lets the cold wind make his face all numb and tingling.

The second night he realizes he misses Cecil’s voice and the countless stars. There are few dozes radio stations available and millions of lights in the buildings’ windows but it’s not what he wants. It’s not what he needs. The constant hum of the city gives him a deep nauseating headache.

Carlos spends most of the week walking and staring and dreaming.

 

 

The flight back passes quickly, filled with shivers of anticipation. Night Vale feels familiar now, not giant and anonymous like New York. It feels like he will see people smiling at him with recognition when he comes back, driving his coupe.

Old Woman Josie is waiting for him by her porch, waving as he drives by. Carlos is not surprised at all when his own mind tells him the angles must have told her he was coming. The thought makes him laugh, the strange noise filling his car, echoing in the small space, and Carlos realizes he hasn’t laughed in months.

He wipes sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand and lets the heavy feeling of the red-scented air settle on his shoulders.

In the evening Cecil talks on air again about Carlos’ perfect hair and perfect jawline and general perfectness and Carlos doesn’t hurl the radio through the window of his flat only because he is too tired to move. Cecil mentions again how he is completely in love with Carlos. Carlos doesn’t mind. He likes Cecil so far, even though they haven’t met that many times. Cecil’s voice seems to be the most sure and steady thing to count on. It gives Carlos a calm sense of completeness, not that it matters, he won’t cross the line of professionalism and get too familiar with the radio host. Besides, Carlos isn’t sure who he is anymore. It seems rude and inappropriate to impose his identity issues on anyone.

 

 

It seems strange that the date in New York and Night Vale is the same, Carlos soon notes, when he figures that there are more minutes in a week than there should be. He calls Cecil and asks him to tell everyone in the town. Cecil broadcasts Carlos’ call but neither he nor anyone else seems fazed.

Then there is someone standing right in front of the door and Carlos can feel cold fear creeping up on him as the figure doesn’t move for several moments. He calls Cecil because Cecil usually knows best about all the secret and frightening and dangerous things, but Cecil doesn’t pick up. That is when Carlos notices his initial doubts about the trustworthiness of Cecil’s audition are long gone.

Later, Carlos forgets. He has a vague memory of someone coming by but he can’t put the pieces together. It worries him much less than it would have worried him a few months ago, it worries him much less than it probably should.

But there is a strange calmness, despite the lingering fear, that makes him feel at peace. Safe, hidden among the thick air.

Carlos understands that sunrises and sunsets are off-time in Night Vale because time doesn’t seem to work here. He isn’t that surprised. Instead, he thinks about the hours of his life he spent waiting for metro trains and buses and airplanes, staring at clocks that showed the real hour, the hand moving with every second that passed, and it made perfect sense. Things seemed to make perfect sense, used to be logical and scientifically explainable, but Carlos only now starts to understand that those are not real values. Those are qualities that don’t matter. They never provided him as much tranquility as the stars amidst the vortex.

 

 

On the day of the sandstorm, Carlos stands outside on the porch for much longer than he probably should. He stares at the dust raising over the town, slowly engulfing it with the grayish half-darkness. The wind is strong, so strong and hot that it makes breathing almost impossible and burns ever cell of Carlos’ skin, but he doesn’t mind. The dull pain makes him feel more real than he can remember. It feels like belonging.

He hides when first grains of sand start to bite his sore skin.

The radio cracks and Carlos can hear only half of the words, which is impressive anyway, in such a sandstorm. He hears when Cecil goes through the vortex and he wants to smack the silly man and shout at him for being irresponsible but after a few minutes he calms down. This is how things are in Night Vale. It’s normal that people die, it’s normal that people disappear. It’s normal to be killed in a hundred different ways, unless angels protect you. It’s normal to walk into a vortex.

Every day is a miracle here. Every day you know there may be no tomorrow.

In the end Cecil comes back and Carlos is already in bed by that time, still wearing his clothes, unable to care about them getting wrinkled and sweaty. Carlos’ nervous laughter fills the room but it’s almost inaudible, with the storm still raging outside.

 

 

The next week, Carlos can’t fall asleep, his head feeling heavy but his mind suspiciously empty. He thinks he misses something that he can’t quite remember. He thinks about his family for a brief moment, of how he hasn’t contacted them in weeks, of how they must be worried. It seems strange to realize he still has family somewhere. It wasn’t them he was running away from. It was everything his previous life was and they just got tangled into the mess.

Night Vale grows on him and Carlos is terrified.

He gets up, goes to Moonlite All-Nite Diner and gets himself a slice of their famous strawberry pie. It tastes nothing like the pie he used to eat as a kid and the thought makes the empty space in his chest ache even more. Then he thinks tomorrow there might be a tornado or an invasion or a mind-cleaning day and he might disappear, too. The thought is crazy, but Carlos realizes, over the last bite of the too-sweet pie, that he might be crazy as well.

It feels like a relief.

The next day he calls his mother and talks with her for almost two hours, or that’s what his clock shows, at least. It will cost him fortune but it doesn’t matter. The only money he spends now is on food. Missing equipment just turns up in his lab and he stopped wondering how and why a long time ago.

His mother asks him to come home for a visit. _It’s not like you’re a prisoner there_ , she says. Carlos doesn’t tell her about his trip to New York. She would feel betrayed.

Carlos wonders if he is a prisoner here, but it lasts just for a moment before he shakes his head and pushes his wandering mind back to the talk with his mom. She laughs and tells him all family stories and lets her accent get thicker as her words get quicker and quicker and Carlos finds himself grinning.

He realizes he is missing spring right now, with everything in pale green and with cold mornings full of dew and surprisingly chilly nights smelling like melting snow and unfrozen soil. He realizes this with a heart-wrenching intensity and he feels like throwing up for ten minutes after he disconnects, because he knows he has to breathe in and out and in this torrid air.

 

 

There is no time for going back home before Carlos almost dies in The Underground City.  For a moment he is certain he is going to die and it all feels like a nightmare more than like reality, maybe because the last few months felt more like a dream than like reality.

He feels disconnected and detached from his body and when he tries to remember what happened down under the bowling alley it feels fuzzy and dark and melting around the edges. He remembers feeling light and dizzy and remembers pain and then hands, countless hands, and then he remembers the plastic scent of linoleum of Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex’s floor. He remembers Cecil’s voice saying _perfect Carlos_ echoing in his head, mixed with his mother’s high-pitched _miss you_ , with an unexpectedly long and soft _s_.

Carlos calls Cecil and asks him out for a date when he understands that everything he has is now and here. He listens to Cecil’s rant on the radio with an amused smile as he eats late dinner and thinks about what to do during the date. He has been on dates, but here in Night Vale things happen differently.

And Carlos is not sure _what_ Cecil is.

They meet and watch the sunset and almost feel each other’s body warmth, standing a few inches away, leaning against the car trunk.

‘Sometimes things seem so strange, or malevolent, and then you find that, underneath, it was something else altogether, something pure, and innocent,’ Carlos says out of nowhere. Cecil assures him he understands.

Carlos thinks if anyone does understand, it’s Cecil.

Back at home, he throws up and realizes that he is alive. He almost died and he is still alive and it’s all because of and thanks to Night Vale and it was the most exhilarating thing he’s ever been though.

The night is sleepless and full of stars and Carlos pretends that the relatively cold air coming into his room through the open window at dawn is like what the real world from his memories feels like. Running across the lawn with his brothers and friends. Coming back from movies late in the evening. Observing scarce starts hidden behind half-transparent clouds from the attic window.

All of his memories seem to have grown into enormous impossible stories and they feel heavy and so dense that if he closes his eyes, he can almost touch them.

Suddenly he feels that he hates this place more than he thought he could ever hate and it makes him freeze mid-movement. It’s sunrise. The time is off.

Carlos just wants to be sure of something. Of today. Of tomorrow. Of himself.

The feeling passes with deep breaths Carlos takes, thinking of nothing but inhaling – exhaling – inhaling – exhaling. He wishes it would work. He wishes so much that he could go back to what his life used to be and feel happy and satisfied. He wishes so much he could feel content and glad and safe but he is old enough to know himself. He is old enough to know it’s not possible, and he is too tired of running and trying to find answers.

Maybe there is no right answer. This is one thing Night Vale taught him: sometimes there isn’t a right answer. Sometimes there isn’t an answer. Sometimes there isn’t even a question.

Carlos manages to ignore the conflicted feelings and spends his day working until he is too tired to go on. He is all sweaty and his skin might be slightly burned but it feels good.

 

 

Then he and Cecil go on a date. Carlos wants to. Cecil makes him forget everything else in the world, and he makes the rusty redness all around feel familiar and embracing. He knows all the answers that exist, maybe not scientific ones, but Carlos doesn’t mind. He feels more like a part of the insanity around him than someone cool and distanced a scientist should be.

Cecil wears furry pants, of course he does. Carlos laughs at that – not at Cecil, he laughs at the situation because it makes him happy. He laughs soundlessly and softly and returns Cecil’s warm and slightly awkward smiles. They eat typical strange food and then do some tests on trees because is amuses Carlos how enthusiastic Cecil is.

Back in front of Carlos’ home, they kiss. Cecil’s lips taste like dust.

The moment feels even stranger than almost-dying felt. It hurts the same much.

Cecil seems so happy. Carlos can’t keep a smile out of his face. He is not sure if he is dreaming or not.

 

 

The next time they meet, Cecil is the one to place a kiss on Carlos’ lips. It tingles and it feels as familiar as possible, almost like a mother’s soft touch. Cecil seems worried, his brows furrowed slightly, so Carlos offers him a small smile.

They get groceries together, in silence, as no words are needed. Cecil holds his hand and it should feel hot, their hands are warm and moist, but all Carlos feels is a cold longing crawling just under his skin.

He wishes he could show Cecil what autumn is, he realizes all of sudden. It doesn’t make sense.

He wishes Cecil would know what real rain is. Or drizzle. Not some falling glass shards or animals or grains of sand. He wishes he could explain why he misses the soft murmur of a river and the hollow one of an ocean. He realizes Cecil said he was backpacking in Europe, but Carlos knows it was nothing back European versions on Night Vale. That is, if Cecil really left the town and not just imagined it.

Everything is possible.

They both pay for their shopping and when they’re about t part at the parking lot, Carlos kisses Cecil’s cheek. It tastes bitter and dull and Carlos knows he needs this to live.

Then a thought comes to his mind: he’s been in Night Vale for over a year and he’s never considered this. It’s probably inappropriate, but he can’t help himself.

‘Can I leave?’ he asks softly. ‘For real? For always?’

He sees Cecil’s face falling, but an answer comes.

‘You can leave whenever you want.’

Carlos knows it’s the truth but he also knows it’s a lie.

He squeezes Cecil’s hand delicately and disappears into his car and then drives ahead and ahead until he doesn’t know where he is, but of course he makes it back to Night Vale without a problem. He gets into his flat, takes off his clothes and steps into the shower, letting cold water engulf his heated body.

‘This is a dream,’ he tells himself, words muffled by streams of water running down his face. It sounds so absurd that he laughs until his lungs hurt.

Was anything he’s even lived not a dream, he wonders, but there is no answer.

 

 

The next week Carlos goes home. He leaves a voice mail for Cecil explaining briefly that he should be back soon, and asks Old Woman Josie to have her angels watching over Cecil while Carlos is gone.

He hugs his mother until his arms hurt and kisses his nieces and smiles at his brothers and their wives and mostly keeps silent during the dinner, listening to everyone else’s stories. There is very little he can say about Night Vale that makes sense outside Night Vale, it’s like trying to describe a dream you had, you know how it feels and how everything happened but putting it into words is impossible. Like seeing something at the edge of your vision.

The food is delicious and it makes wave of pleasure run through Carlos’ body. Everything seems to be as it should.

But he can’t sleep at night. He thinks about Cecil and his long fingers and ashen lips and strange colored eyes, he thinks how he can’t tell anyone he has a boyfriend because they would laugh – he is too old for that, isn’t he? – and they would ask what he is like and Carlos isn’t sure he could answer that question. Cecil is incredible. He feels safe and there are red rims underneath his nails, as if he dug something out of the red ground in his tiny backyard. He wears purple glasses and can imitate Khoshekh’s purr perfectly, even if it’s a tone deeper. He has tattoos on his arms and they seem to be moving whenever Carlos is not looking.

All those words seem laughable here, among green leaf trees all around and among puddles of sun-warmed water in the streets, among bread for dinner and all-human population.

The next morning Carlos tries to eat cornflakes for breakfast but they taste all wrong. Maybe because he can see them.

His mother looks at him with a worried face and he says something, whatever, to make her laugh. She hugs him and her body feels warm. Cecil’s body always feels cool to touch.

No one seems to be afraid of anything and no one seems to possess this special kind of inner strength that only comes from experience here and it makes Carlos anxious.

He goes out into the town and gets drenched and spends the rest of the day in bed nursing a headache. He tells him mom it’s probably a cold even though he knows it’s the multitude of colors and images and noises he is not used to assaulting his senses. They wouldn’t understand.

None of them almost died. None of them seem to understand that they can’t take tomorrow for granted. None of them talk about mysteries and dreams and love openly. It makes Carlos feel claustrophobic.

 

 

The next day he leaves home telling his family that he wants to visit some of his university friends. They are disappointed he won’t stay for longer but Carlos cannot bring himself to stay to pleasure them. He almost hyperventilates when he’s waiting for his plane.

Mountains look like gigantic shadows from up in the sky.

Carlos lands on a nearby airport – the Night Vale one is too dangerous – and gets into his car. His limbs feel like lead and his lungs seem tight but there is a tingle of excitement that makes him smile.

This is running away, he realizes, but he has nothing to lose.

As soon as he opens the door of his car, having parked in front of his house, a wall of hot air engulfs him protectively and he can taste metal in the air. There will be a storm tonight, he knows. Who knows what the storm might bring.

He calls Cecil who doesn’t answer the phone.

Carlos gets back into the car and drives to Cecil’s little house. The house is colored rusty red near the ground, like all others. It makes Carlos breathe in relief, knowing that this is a constant he can count on amidst all the strangeness.

He knocks. There is a hollow silence all around, interrupted only by a scarce low hum of thunder that seems to run under Carlos’ feet rather than in the air.

There is no answer. He tries again and again and nothing happens.

Just as he’s turning around to get back into his car, his phone buzzes. It’s a text message from Cecil. Carlos didn’t know Cecil even owned a cell phone. The message says _Radon Canyon, 7 p.m._

Carlos sighs, checks the time – it shows 5:17 p.m. – and gets into the car. He drives back into his lab and paces across the room, occasionally glancing at projects he should probably be working on, until it’s time to leave. He can’t be bothered to change clothes. He isn’t someone who changes clothes for a date and Cecil knows that and finds it sweet.

Cecil is already there, sitting in the passenger’s seat of his car, with his long legs stretched outside. Carlos walks up to him slowly, ignoring the burning feeling of the arid rock under his feet. Cecil stands up before Carlos gets to him and as soon as they are a few inches away, he wraps his long-fingered hands around Carlos’, his skin feels cold and clammy even though he’s wearing trousers, long-sleeved shirt and a woolen vest.

‘Missed you,’ Carlos says.

‘It wasn’t long,’ Cecil reminds him with utmost respect he has for Carlos’ worries about time in Night Vale. Carlos chuckles.

‘It felt like the minutes stretched like honey, even if my watch showed the right time,’ he admits, squeezing Cecil’s hands harder. ‘Even out there.’

‘You see,’ Cecil murmurs, bringing his lips to Carlos’ head and kissing him in the spot where Carlos apparently should have his third eye, according to Night Vale citizens. Carlos shivers slightly under the soft touch of Cecil’s dry lips.

‘I see,’ he admits and wraps his arms around Cecil’s waist. ‘You lied to me,’ he adds and Cecil stiffens slightly.

‘Did I?’

‘You said I can leave Night Vale,’ Carlos says, looking into Cecil’s undefinable eyes. ‘And I can’t.’

The words feel much tougher than they are supposed to, much more definite, but Carlos is not sure he minds. He is happy that his family is happy, that his brothers have jobs and families and normal lives, but he’s always been the different one, the torn one. They always thought of him in their categories and it hurt, even if he never mentioned it.

Here, he is something else. He is a whole new category.

‘Even if we don’t have… bagels? Or mountains?’

‘Even so,’ Carlos laughs and the edges of Cecil’s tattoos peeking from behind the cuffs seem to glimmer happily. ‘C’mere,’ he adds quietly and Cecil stands a step closer.

Carlos kisses his dry lips and they taste more like dust and wind than ever before. Today might be the most amazing day in Carlos’ life, he decides. Realizing that he loves someone. Even if he’s not sure if any of this is happening, if it really exists. Maybe this is just a mirage. Maybe the outside world is a mirage. Maybe mountains are a mirage, and the ocean. Maybe nothing but the vast red desert even exists.

None of that matters.

‘Can I have you tomorrow, too?’ Carlos asks boldly, presumptuously, and almost trembles when Cecil answers.

‘I don’t think the City Council banned tomorrows,’ he says gleefully, ‘So I would say yes.’

Carlos laughs. The last rays of belated sunset stroke the back of his head and reflect in Cecil’s glasses. Cecil’s eyes have all colors of the ocean, he notices. An endless myriad of deep colors.

For the first time Carlos hopes tomorrow is longer than the 1440 minutes it should be.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> My first NV story. I wanted to write some silly fluff, but apparently my brain doesn't work like that. I hope you enjoyed these musings. I'd be very happy if you let me know what you think :)
> 
> Thanks for reading, and _goodnight_


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